11.27.2013

Hipster Nation in NYC

Have we discussed hipsters before? Do you know what one is?
Are you one? According to our friend Wikipedia, a hipster is an urban,
middle-class adult or older teenager associated with indie music,
non-mainstream fashion, progressive political views, and alternative
lifestyles. These subculture-loving peoples are not commonly found in Upstate
NY, although a recent lunch in Binghamton had certainly been infiltrated by
college kids who at least thought they were. You might recognize a hipster by
their suede booties, ironically sported mustaches or thick, black-rimmed
glasses, or snooty attitudes about Starbucks and Katy Perry. Come on, you guys, everybody likes Katy Perry! I’m not
saying I dislike all hipsters – I haven’t met them all – but a certain distaste
comes to my mind when I spy a dude in skinny jeans and burgundy suede booties
with dumb glasses and a bored, droll expression on his face. I can’t help it.

Here’s the annoying thing about hipsters – they’re usually
right about the good places to eat. It ties in with the whole “I’m so above brands (except Apple iProducts
which I fervently worship),” mentality. While that can be preachy and annoying
when you just want a Big Mac, it’s a pretty good philosophy about eating out,
in general. And that fact makes it harder to label them all as uppity jerks. If
you want to really do some good hipster watching, you’ve got to get yourself
into The City, or any city, really. But in October, my boss-friend Liz and I,
accompanied by her dashing accomplice J, hit up April Bloomfield’s The Breslin,
in Manhattan, and were nearly assaulted by legions of the Hipster Apocalypse. Ordinarily,
this would be irritating to the point I might have to eat somewhere else, but
in the case of April, I take exception. Have you heard of her? She is a
transplanted Brit, lone female darling of the snout-to-tail mafia of whole-hog
chef elites, and responsible for the best oatmeal cookie recipe I’ve ever
tried. Her cookbook, A Girl and Her Pig,
is filled with homey, uncomplicated, but achingly hipster-ish foods. Lots of
cool cuts of meat, soulful sides, and comforting desserts lurk within its
awesome pages. Basically, she’s a rock star, and I’ve been dying to eat her
food, hipsters be damned.

I had spent the previous weekend with Big Hungry Jill in the
magical land called New Jersey, and taken a harrowing bus ride and subsequent
cab ride to the restaurant. I was late, and expecting us to settle into a chic
table in a bustling joint. Instead, Manhattan was jam-packed on that Sunday
evening, and we had to settle for a weird bar table stuck right in the center
of the pub area, and order from the bar rather than enjoy normal service. This
was a big letdown, so I’m thankful to report that the food was so good, it
didn’t matter.

If you look really hard, you can spot two hipster in the lower third of this pic

J ordered boiled peanuts to kick things off, and unlike the
pleasingly salty but pedestrian and soggy versions from my collegiate days in
Carolina, these were flash-fried in pork fat (groan), tender and crispy, salty,
but also rich and deep in flavor. They were the peanuttiest peanuts ever,
essentially. Who knew it took pig to bring out the true greatness of peanuts?

Liz ordered the beef and stilton pie, which was literally
the tiniest pie I have ever encountered. I’m really sad that I ate it before we
took a picture of it, because it was so wee, it was kind of precious. Its
innards we comprised of beef so rich and cooked down, it was almost like beef
marmalade. Yeah, put that concept in your pipe and smoke it. The stilton added
complexity and earthiness, but was pretty subtle for a cheese that can
sometimes be overpowering, depending on variety. There was little crust, due to
the bite size of this treat, but what I tasted was a flaky, if somewhat bland base
for the robust beef flavor. Upon return to The Breslin, I would order three or
four of these for the table. At $9 a pop, that would be a costly proposition,
but worth it.

You know I had to get the chicken liver parfait. What can I
say? I’m a pate junky. This was considerably darker and deeper than others I’ve
tried, but still couldn’t match Parc’s iteration of this European classic. I
appreciated the nice char on the airy bread served with it, and the thin layer
of aspic on top, but the pate itself was pretty ordinary. It could have used
some jazzing up via accoutrements.

We all toiled over our entrée selections. For one thing, it
was getting late, and our appetizers had been so hearty, we were barely hungry,
but also, who wanted to go to the bar and order them? J and I ended up with the
lamb burger, and it was an excellent choice. Just funky enough to differentiate
itself from a beef burger, the lamb was more than an inch thick and not at all
gamey, oozing rich juices and decadent meatiness. The feta cheese and raw red
onion were tangy matches to counterpoint the richness, and the substantial bun
soaked up the juice and was given ample attention of its own, with nice grill
marks on the outside. The “thrice-cooked chips” alongside were everything
homemade fries should be – salty, perfectly crunchy on the outside, and cut
thick enough to still be fluffy and creamy on the inside. I loved dipping them
in the cumin mayo that came supposedly for the burger, but went really well
with the fried chips.

One thing I appreciate about eating out with Liz is that, no
matter what pigs we make out of ourselves during dinner, she always gives the
thumbs up for dessert. Me too, Liz, me too. So, we each ordered one along with
a bunch of spoons, as one should in a democracy. At this point, despite how
good the food was, we had been taken to task for hogging a table by a really
irritating fool in a tan corduroy blazer and stupid Buddy Holly glasses, and I
just didn’t have it in me to take notes. A verbal assault by a hipster can
really throw you off your blogging game. And now April’s up and changed her
menu, so I don’t know what these were, precisely. I know those little spheres
were poached pears, and I know the croutons were banana bread, and I know it
was divine. There was freeze-dried whipped cream under the ice cream for crunch, which was super cool. Liz’s was this chocolate malt panna cotta on a cookie crust with
whiskey caramel sauce and some kind of dark chocolate ice cream. It was all
very fancy, not too sweet, full of textures and temperatures, and super extra
yummy. So, even though neither of these will be on the menu when you go, do
order dessert. Whatever it is, I have no doubt it will be stellar.

The Breslin calls itself a gastropub, but to me, it’s a
little slick to rely upon the associations you get from a British chef and pub
fare. Yes, the food is essentially rustic-style comfort food, but the location,
inside the ultra-hip Ace Hotel, and certainly the clientele, bely a more
upscale eatery than the word gastropub entails. The food was absolutely a 9 on
the BHS scale, but I would really like to go back and get the full experience,
at a table in the dining room, with table service and not feeling quite so
tired or rushed. And I would really love to hit Bloomfield’s first NYC
destination, The Spotted Pig, in the West Village. The menu is small, seasonal,
and precious. I want it.

Happy Thanksgiving, Big Hungries! What do you have on deck?
If you’re hosting any hipsters for the big feast, let me suggest procuring a
local, non-Butterball turkey, and plan on making the turkey stock for the gravy
from scratch. As for us, we’re hosting Shawn’s family at our house for the
first time ever, and I’m super excited. We’re brining and smoking one bird, and
slathering the other in herb butter and roasting that sucker. I’m also
attempting a holiday sangria with white wine, cassis, pomegranate juice, and
fresh cherries. Wish me luck! My personality is big; my hunger is bigger.

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